Fae deepened her smile, showing her teeth. Funny how people said that. Smile, show your teeth. A threatened dog showed its teeth too. She inhaled sharply and adjusted her smile. It felt fake, plasticky. She wavered between the word smile and grin, then decided it didn’t matter. Poise was all that mattered. She pulled her back straight, lifted her chin, released her stiff hands gracefully, ever so gracefully to hover at her side and smiled.
Third position. Plie. Smile.
“You don’t dance around the pain, darling. That never helps. You acknowledge it, then you laugh at it, and then you dance through it,” Brad gripped her upper arm so tightly that she cried out in pain.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she cried.
He shrugged. “Do you want this job or not?”
“Of course I want it.”
“Then do as I say.”
“But it hurts so much.”
“If you can’t handle it, go home. Go home, Fae. Give it up.”
“I’m not giving up, Brad.”
Brad watched as she pulled herself up again, wincing at the pain in her muscles, the sting of torn skin. He nodded his grim approval as she stood ready and poised again, her wide smile drenched in salty tears.
Pirouette sur les pointes. Spot. Smile.
She massaged her aching legs surreptitiously, her eyes scanning the studio. The muscle spray was on the highest shelf, way out of reach. There were days she wished she were taller, that she didn’t still look like a child. Brad walked in and frowned at her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, scrambling to her feet.
To her surprise, he walked over to the shelf, picking up the spray she had been eyeing. He gestured for her to sit, kneeling beside her. She wanted to cry with the relief his gentle kneading brought her.
“You don’t have to be strong alone.”
“But you said -”
“Not all dances are solos.”
Volte. Corrida apart.
“You don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand?”
“I don’t love you.”
“Give me a chance. Please.”
“It has nothing to do with that. I just… I just can’t.”
“Tell me why. Please, Fae.” He knelt before her, grasping her hands. She pulled away.
“I still love him, Brad. I’ve never stopped loving him. I can’t. I don’t know why.”
“But he’s gone.”
“And you killed him. It was your fault. Don’t bother telling me otherwise. I know.”
“It was an accident.”
“You were drunk!”
“He was worse!”
“Oh, so that’s justification for driving drunk? The least drunk person needs to drive?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I don’t care. He’s gone because of you. That’s all I know. I’m sorry.”
Allonge, facing him.
She drew herself up straight again, feeling for all the world like a puppet on a string. She thrust her chin out, roughly at first, then gently settling into a familiar pose. Her hands clenched compulsively, but she forced them open, tautly at rest. Body poised, she set her face.
So I had this dance theme in my head since last week's Broadway show. I don't really know much about dance terms, so I googled, with most of the stuff coming from this site.
To all real dancers out there, sorry if it doesn't make sense. Also, pointers would help.
Also, this piece is exactly 500 words because I said I would write 500 words before bed.
So realistic, I can see her, feel the pain! and then the tragedy... a good story before bedtime? Well done xReplyDelete
Thank you Honore.Delete